Behind the Mask -- Why I'm Walking

This year, I'm going to walk again for the Pregnancy Care Center. This organization helps women to see that, when they find themselves in a situation where they are "with child" and are exploring their "options," that they make a truly informed choice -- hopefully, the choice for life. And, if someone does unfortunately abort their child, they are there yet again to help with post-abortion counseling, so that the mother of the aborted child can hopefully embrace forgiveness in Christ. Walking for this Center the day before Mother's Day is important to me, and I take walking for it personally.

Whenever "Sanctity of Life" Sunday hit whichever church where ever we happened to attend, I will say that I truly despised it. I hated seeing photos of aborted fetuses. I felt uneasy every time the Bible verses would pop up on the screen saying that those who shed innocent blood would suffer, as well. As the years went by, I would look at my wonderful second husband and say, "I really need to go check on the children." He'd pat my leg and say, "Go on."

I'd make it to the bathroom and sob. Tears pouring down my cheeks. On the outside, I was very outspokenly anti-abortion. I actually got gently scolded by someone at one church because she told me that there were people who had abortions, who truly felt sorry for them, and that I needed to find a more gentle approach to my feelings. Inside, I felt like a phony. I'd look at people who had children out of wedlock and envy them, heralding their choice for life. After all, I hid the secret behind a mask, known only to Tim, and the family of my never to be born child -- I had had an abortion. I was that killer, that murderer, that one who deserved death for the death of my child. For years I hid behind the mask. I'd smile on the outside, but would carry that gigantic blood-covered "A" for abortion on the veil of my heart.

Years ago, I finally met my British pen-pal. He was gorgeous to me, inside and out. Here, standing before me was the one I'd pour my heart out to about home, school and all that was right and wrong in the world, and the one who still liked me, while knowing all there was to know about me. I never shared anything with anyone like I had him, and I never did so again, until I met my Tim. Dave declared that he loved me. I was running from God at the time, angry that my beloved Gram was ill and in the nursing home. I had already crossed the threshold of sex before marriage, my rebellion spurred along by the lie of all lies: "Oh, it's the EIGHTIES (NINETIES, a NEW millennium), God HAS to understand that TIMES have CHANGED!" Needless to say, if I would have been reading my Bible, I would have read and understood that God does NOT change. Sin is still sin, no matter which decade you live in.

Anyway, Dave declared to me that he wanted to marry me. I made plans to go to Merseyside, England, as it would have been difficult for him to get a job here in the United States in his profession. I made the journey; I was scared, excited, hopeful, planning to live my days, growing old with my dearest and best friend in the world. The first weeks were stupendously exciting as we painted our flat, which sat above a newspaper shoppe. We lived, laughed, loved; I was truly happy. Down the street from us on the way to the corner market, was a bridal shoppe. In the window was a beautiful light pink wedding dress; it was so light pink it was almost white. And I imagined wearing that dress. I was still enough of a traditionalist to know that there was no way I could wear white, but I was looking forward to wearing that dress. I was making plans to work at a videographer's/voice-over establishment, and they were excited to get an American to provide voices for a unique sound. Life was good.

Around Thanksgiving time (I still served a Thanksgiving meal on a Saturday, even though they do not celebrate Thanksgiving over there), I wasn't feeling well. I had to go to the bathroom constantly. We went to a wonderful town where there were Christmas lights galore; his sister, who was at the end of her pregnancy, noticed how much I was going to the bathroom and exclaimed, "Lovey, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were preggers, too!" Dave and I talked about it, as I couldn't even be near lard-fried chips -- the smell would send me to the bathroom; and then we took the test. Positive. .

Dave gave me the biggest hug I'd ever received and yelled, "We're having a BABY! You're making me a DADDY!" We went to his doctor's, and he excitedly said how happy he was for the both of us. He gave me a pamphlet showing me how the baby develops in the womb, told me he'd see us the next month. We went to the fish and chippy and while waiting for our food, Dave would press his face against my belly, and yell, "Daddy loves you, Baby!" and then excitedly tell all in the fish and chippy, "I'm going to be a Daddy!" We'd get hearty congratulations from smiling strangers. His sister hugged us when we told her the wonderful news, exclaiming how the cousins (her child and ours) would be best of friends, as they were going to be so close in age. Then, we told his Mum and Dad.

At first, they seemed to accept our happy news. Dave's excitement was contagious. Then Pam (his Mum), asked to talk to him alone. He was gone from the flat for hours. When I rushed up to greet him, there was a tenseness that I had never seen from him before. He told me in no nonsense terms that we needed to "forgo" the plans of having this baby. That we didn't have enough money. What would our friends think? Mum would disown him. That we could have other children together. That children age you quickly.

The reasoning's were ridiculous to me. They angered me. They frightened me. I screamed at him. I cried at him. I called him names I cannot repeat here. I swore to him that if he wasn't willing to fight for his child, that I still would. I ran out of the flat, past the bridal shop, over the bridge, and hid in a bog-type area near his sister's home, which wasn't far from where we lived. It was cold, very cold that night. They looked for me. By this time, he must have called his sister, because she was out looking for me, along with her husband. I waited until Dave had to go to work, and then I went home to the flat.

Our relationship started to change considerably. I was being unreasonable. I then called my mother, tiptoeing around the subject. I had no money, as I used it all to go over to England, and then spent money that I did have over there on household items. I asked, "If I needed to uh, come home for any reason, do you know if I could borrow the money from you?"

"Oh, so you've got yourself in a pickle that you can't get out of? Are you splitting up already? I knew you would....." It went on. I knew that the people who always got my sister out of scrapes were not about to help me. I just wanted to get home so that I could have the baby, and then hopefully Dave change his mind, would want to see the baby and then all would be well once more. I knew he was frightened, and I wanted to fight for us as much as I wanted to fight for that baby. I had no friends over there except his friends. There was no family over there except his family. And there was no way home that I could see. Other friends in the US were told that I was pregnant, but they didn't know this new problem. How could I say anything was wrong? I gave up every thing I had to go be with this guy. It seemed crazy, didn't it? I must have read too many stupid romance novels.

Dave set up an appointment with his doctor; this time it was to get an okay for an abortion. At that time in England, to get an abortion, you had to get the permission the doctor. He had to state that the female was in her right mind at the time, or something like that, because he had to sign a paper okaying it. He was SUPPOSED to see me. I refused to go into the doctor's office. Dave went in, and in ten minutes came back out, with a signed paper. He called and set up the appointment at the clinic. His mother gave him the money to pay for it. I begged and pleaded. I asked for us to PLEASE give this child a shot at life. I begged them to please consider adoption for this baby. I was refuted on every option. The night before the procedure, I had plans to go into hiding of some sort. He didn't have on his uniform and said he wanted to drive me somewhere; he wanted us to go somewhere overnight. I packed my items, thinking that he was changing his mind. We ended up at his parents house. He was a bobby -- a policeman. There was no use calling the police about this. His father suffered from insomnia; he'd be able to know if I'd try to sneak out of the house. But where would I sneak away to? I had no where to go. No money, no options. I didn't sleep. I only cried, begging God to somehow rescue me from this. Rescuing didn't come. December 19th, 1990 will be a date that will live on in infamy for me.

Dave came. He piled me into the car and we drove not far from Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields. I used to love songs regarding those places, but from that moment on, I would hate those songs for what it reminded me of. Dave stood over me while I signed the papers. I had one more chance. I was in the room with a roomful of other girls getting the same thing done. There was a lot of crying along with my own. One girl who was beside me, however, exclaimed how excited and free she was going to be after this was done. I wanted to choke her.

Right before the nurse the nurse injected me with the fluid to put me to sleep for the procedure, I said, "Please, I don't want to get this done!"

"Then what are you here, for?" she said with disdain in her voice.

I awoke and felt like a piece of me was lost forever. I sobbed, vomited, and hated myself with a hatred beyond any comprehension. The formerly excited girl was sobbing, herself. The mournful cries in that roomful of girls will be unforgettable to me for the rest of my life. I have been told that in the United States, girls are not usually put to sleep while getting the procedure done, that they can hear what goes on. That would be utterly devastating.

From that point on, I was constantly taking baths. I spent hours in the bathtub, the water getting long cold. I tried to wash what I did away, and could not. I felt numb. Dave came to the bathroom one time and said, "You can say it, you hate me. Don't you?" I looked up at him and said, "I feel absolutely nothing. I don't know how or what to feel. I don't hate you, I don't feel anything at all for anything or anyone. I hate me. I hate me. I hate me." That only angered him. We told everyone else the other lie -- we lost the baby. I made him tell people that.

I was asked to go to church with Pam on Christmas Eve. I didn't want to go and pretend I was holy. I was a murderess. I didn't want the abortion at all, but I didn't fight hard enough, either. Dave, the rest of the family, some friends and I went to the pub. I've never been a drinker, but I sucked down two glasses of wine and stared at someone. She asked me if I was alright, and I started crying, saying, "NO! NO! I am NOT alright! I don't have my BABY!" Her sister and the other gal took me straight to the bathroom; I was an embarrassment to Dave that night.

Then we went to a New Year's Eve party the next week. I didn't drink a single thing. He drank until he was sloshed. He then got the "wonderful" idea of switching clothes with a female. He looked odious to me, and I told him that he was embarrassing me. He looked straight at me and said, "I don't even KNOW you, anymore." It was like the death nell tolling on us at that moment.

I took up walking alone at night, walking aimlessly. I couldn't live with myself. I saw a bridge. I looked to the left and the right and saw no one. I lost my baby. I was losing my best friend. I lost my God; after all, how could He love me after what I did to the gift He gave me? I climbed up on the railing and determined that I was going to rid the world of the worst piece of garbage. No one would miss me, anyway, I thought. I was unlovable and unloved. I looked down, trying to muster up the courage to jump. Then I saw it. A piece of garbage floated by. Something in my head screamed, "You are NOT GARBAGE!!!" I stood up on that ledge, crying. I started to get down when someone drove up, and an individual yelled, "OY! You there! Are you alright?" I said weakly, "Yes, I'll be alright."

"Do you need a ride somewhere, Luv? If you need anything, I'll help."

"No... no, thank you."

I turned around to look towards the car, and it was gone. I often wonder if that was an angel coming to my aid.

Four weeks after the abortion, I was on a plane ride home. Dave's Mum had paid for the ticket, he telling me only two days previously that he made a mistake, that he didn't love me, anymore. I'm told that most times, the relationship between a man and a woman hardly ever lives through an abortion.

It took many years of self-hatred, self-punishment with an abusive es-husband (and saying "I except my punishment, O Lord" when referring to my relationship with him), and then the road to healing when my Tim married me and started encouraging help for me. I've had trouble with every single pregnancy since that abortion. With every trouble that occurs to me related to my children now, I think back, "You're reaping what you sowed." It takes years, a ton of reading about the forgiveness of God, and sometimes it takes seeking help from a therapist to get over the feelings of guilt and shame. I needed to talk to someone from the Pregnancy Care Center after getting my tubes tied, as I felt such horrible guilt that "there I was, telling God what I was doing with my reproductive organs again!" I went through the Post Abortion Recovery program, and I'm thankful I did. They encouraged me to name the child, and I really don't think I was ready to name it at that time. I always assumed it was a boy. Recently, I've wondered if it was really a girl. Again my heart broke. I don't know why, maybe because of my relationship with my beautiful daughter, and I know what I took away from my children.

If I were to name the child today, I would have loved to have known Catherine. She would have been 19 in July of this year. I will miss her all of the days of my life. When I think of how many children I have, I think of five. Always. There's an empty place at the dinner table. There's a diamond in the middle of my children's ring -- saved for her. My children all know about the sibling that they will meet in Heaven. I am walking for the Catherines who need to be heard. I'm walking for those like myself who loved and wanted their babies but felt they were trapped and scared. If I can help just ONE person who is considering abortion to turn around and do the right thing -- have that baby, please -- then the death of my dear baby, and the years of suffering will NOT be in vain.

And for those who have aborted their child, PLEASE, know that there is help. There is forgiveness and love from the Savior. He is there to heal your broken heart and He is NOT out to destroy you for what you have done. He is near the brokenhearted and He wants you to live a full life in Him. Jesus died on the cross to save us from ALL of our sins -- including abortion. There is no one sin greater than another in God's eyes. You don't need to live in the shadows, anymore. Please walk in the light of His forgiveness and grace. And know that your sister in Christ is praying for you and loves you. It's time to take off the mask and walk in freedom.

I was a teenage Jesus Freak

Recently, I was informed by a person old enough to be my son that I basically had no clue about speaking seriously into another younger person's life. He didn't understand why I didn't just laugh off this person's statement, which to me, sounded dire. He basically said to me that until I lived on the edge of wanting to end it all, instead of just finding a friend dead of suicide, that I really didn't know anything about what the younger generation goes through.

He's right in some respects. I have no idea what it is like to be bombarded with terms such as "sexting" and "reality TV," at a young age, where the goal to life is not to live a good life, but rather to be "unique" and "famous" -- beyond all costs. People aren't satisfied to have 15 minutes of fame, they want to milk their fame for the craziest things, like acting in degrading fashion on shows such as "Jersey Shore" or having a ton of children in "Jon & Kate plus 8."

But I digress. Anyone who knew me in high school could probably attest to the fact that I was a "nice" girl. A "smart" girl. Possibly a "stuck up" girl. A "goofy girl." Life for me at high school was like a dark tunnel where I never saw a light shining at the end. I got books smacked out of my hands, clothes stolen at gym class, hit on the back of the head by someone walking by, tripped at gym class just when I was about to finish running a mile. I got called some horrible names associated with my maiden name; I won't say what the name was, but it has to do with defecation. I remember the last day at Sophomore year of high school, one boy in particular, "David B." stated in German class: "Hey, everybody, I went by Becky's house and BOY, I saw FUMES coming out of their house, it SMELLED so BAD!" Hot tears stung my eyes, but I was NEVER going to let ANYONE at that school see me cry. Never, I vowed. I'd tell a teacher I had a bad headache and run as quickly to the nurses' office as I could. She always gave me a room in which to sob my heart out. I was not allowed to cry at home, as that was a sign of weakness to my mother, and would set her off.

I went home that day and said to my mother, "Either find a way for me to go to college a year early, or I promise you I will QUIT school. I CANNOT stand another day there." I seriously thought death would have been better than to finish my senior year at that place, although I knew I could never kill myself, as that would be a one-way trip to hell for me. All good Lutheran girls and boys KNEW that. But I NEEDED to see the light at the end of that tunnel; I needed SOMETHING for which I could look forward.

Why would anyone behave in such a manner to another human being? I honestly don't know. To this day, if I see someone being bullied, or if I perceive that someone else is picking needlessly on someone else, I get very upset and want to do something to help.

At the time, I was considered a Christian. And I was the best Christian I could be at that time. I had someone hit me once at school, and say to me, "Go on, little Christian girl, FIGHT ME BACK." I didn't. I was constantly reminded that I had a bigger future ahead if I could keep my head. When I took off after the girls who tripped me on the track (with murderous thoughts in my brain towards those girls, I painfully admit), the gym teacher took off running after me, caught me in the middle of the football field and held me back from going after them. She kept telling me, "You'll BE somebody someday! You'll BE somebody someday!" That was the first time I cried out in public.

I took God very seriously. I used to have some deep discussions with one girl in particular, Roberta, about God and heaven and both of us becoming nuns, even though I was a Lutheran! I loved God. I just didn't know why He kept setting me up for torture at school and at home. I'd see all of these people who made fun of me able to enjoy part-time jobs, go out on dates, and just hang out with friends; I was only allowed to hang out with my brothers and sister. If I went to a friend's house, or wanted to do something extra-curricular, I had to have a sibling with me. I could not just be me. I didn't even know who I was, except a Christian and a Beatle fanatic.

And being a Christian at that time was no fun. I got made fun of every single day. Even some of the teachers mocked me, which was harder for me to take. I didn't get it. People didn't like my family, I guess, so they automatically didn't like me. Everyone else had fun. Those girls who were allowed to wear make-up and making horrible fun of me were having a lot more fun than me, I thought. I stopped going to church, because I even got made fun of by some fellow kids there. Later on I would rebel in a big way, and found out ruefully that the "fun" my torturers seemed to be having wasn't fun at all, and almost led to my destruction (but I will cover that in another blog -- soon).

I remember some of the kids calling me "sister Rebecca" because I wrote in a school paper that I would not have sex just because everyone else was doing it. Someone broke into my file in my English class and somehow what I wrote got passed to practically everyone in the class, it seemed, because everyone knew what I wrote -- and got a good laugh out of it. Maybe it was because they all knew my paternal grandmother's reputation as well as my father's, I don't know, but they all thought it was a hoot. I even had to endure one boy looking at me in homeroom, saying, "You want SEX, don't you Becky, you REALLY WANT IT, don't YOU?" I had another kid say to me, "Oh, you're so HOLY, aren't you? You won't have SEX because you're just SUCH a Christian! Haw, haw, haw! Oh, Sister Rebecca, can I KISS your RING?! Ugh, no! You're too dirty! Who'd EVER want to KISS YOU?!" Another run to the nurse's office for a good cry.

I remember thinking at the time that I was just God's little joke on humanity. What sort of impact would I EVER make? Then I felt so horrible one time when a tough girl came up to me and asked, "Hey, are you a Christian or something?"

I froze. I didn't want to fight anyone over Jesus. I loved God, and I was a Christian, but I was too frightened. I weakly replied, "Uh, I-I-I uh, I don't know...."

"Boy, I'm disappointed. I was sure that you were."

I suddenly felt like Peter when he denied Jesus. I broke out in a cold sweat and hollered behind her, "I DO... I DO believe in Jesus! I really DO!" By then, she flitted me off with her hand and had already walked away.

Even though I went on to fall away from Christ and later come back to Him, I was the best Christian I could be at that time in my life. However, I felt like a real failure for Him.

Later on in my life, I found that a few people who taunted me horrendously are now my brothers and sisters in Christ! Was I upset when I found that out? NO, to my initial surprise, and ultimate joy at my response to finding out that they are now Jesus' property. I am so happy to know that there are others who I always loved and thought dear to me who are serving the Lord. I am saddened by those who have not called yet called upon Jesus as their love. But I will continue to pray for them.

I've had a few people apologize to me for their behavior towards me in the past, and I've had a few who have apologized for their lack of standing up for me. I truly love them and hold no anger toward them, in spite of what has happened. And that's not me in action, there, loving people unconditionally. You see, when I was younger, I was going to be rich and famous at any cost just so I could go back to a reunion some day and show THEM. Only God, through the power of Jesus, can take your pain and sorrow and turn it to victory and joy. Only Jesus could take that time when I denied that I was a Christian, and then turn me into a living megaphone for Him!

I want to encourage you, teen and young adult who is facing persecution for whatever reason: HANG on! Stand strong in the glory and power of His might! Know that ALL things work together for good to those who are in Christ Jesus! There IS a light at the end of that proverbial tunnel, and that light is the LIGHT of Jesus Christ! You ARE making a difference! You may be that seed, that water, that ray of sunshine in someone else's life. Please dont' believe it that those people are having more fun than you are -- they are blinded by the lies of this world. I know it personally; I survived it. Don't grow weary of doing good! You, my dear young friend, can MAKE IT!!! If I did, ANYBODY can! God be with you today and always.

Turn Around... Turn Around

The other day, it happened. I survived the day without one of my children adding a new spot or stain to my shirt. Surprisingly, the moment I dreamed of for so long had a bittersweet ring to it. The change is starting to occur.

Soon, I won't tell my daughter, "hold still, I know it stings, but I have to get the knots out of your hair."

In short order I won't tell my soon to be 11-year old, "How many times do I have to TELL you, I don't want to see your stinky old socks in my NICE FRONT ROOM?!"

Before I know it, I won't be reminding my four year old, "Ah-ah-ah, did you wash your hands after going potty?"

In the blink of an eye, I won't be tripping over toys in the hallway, or sitting on Buzz Lightyear toys that catch me unawares (which honestly said, "I have a laser and I'm NOT afraid to use it," when I did sit on that silly toy).

No more chocolate covered kisses, no more "look, Mommy, look at me!", no more giggles over silly sayings and sing songs in the car or Bible stories before bedtime.

No more making the rounds at night, kissing each and every one of them with heartfelt "I love you's."

No more listening to in-depth, insessant stories and facts about your children's favorite subjects.

No more hearing, "I love you, Mommy; you're the BEST and most beautiful Mommy in the World!"

How many times have we told our children, "Oh, will you grow up?" Well, they DO just that, without any encouragement from us; it all happens naturally.

Turn around, turn around, turn around and they're young adults, going out of the door, and having babes of their own.

I know, you may be asking, "Well, gee, you have a four year old, you still have LOTS of time!"

No, I don't. You see, it seems like only yesterday that my 17-year old was wrapping his tiny arms around me, saying, "I love you FOREVER, Mommy!" It seems like a lifetime ago that I cheered on my now 21-year old step-son at a baseball game when he was ten, or skated hand in hand with his now 18-year old brother, singing "I Want It That Way" (I STILL cannot hear that song without a tear welling up in my eyes at that moment in time). Now... well, it's all memories. Memories that I pray never get erased by age.


Mercy, my house is going to be TOO quiet when my children eventually leave the nest!


So, I need to treasure every moment, hold onto it and cherish every single second with those remaining pearls I know as my children. Make sure to create mental snapshots of those sweet memories along this journey of life. Today, I'm going to go get a free pretzel with the children. I'm going to make a more concerted effort to enjoy what time I do have with my beauties. I can attest that it all goes by so very quickly, and then someday, you must say goodbye to the ones you love. Cherish it, with all your heart. So your child is acting in an irritating factor? Cherish those moments, too, while directing them back on course the best way you can.

Just before I took to this blog, I glanced out of the window. There was my wonderful husband, walking along. Directly behind him, followed my beautifully handsome son, smiling as he tried to match my husband's pace, step by step. A tear came to my eye as I silently prayed, "May you walk in the way of your father, my sweet boy, and may you grow strong in the Lord, now and forever."

My Dad prayed with me today....

The first person I remember holding such an emotion as love towards was my father. I remember being a tiny little thing, standing at the back door, waving good-bye to my father as he took off in the car to go to work. Then, as soon as I saw him take off, I rushed as quickly to the front door as I could. That huge front door always caused me considerable trouble to open, as we always opened it with an old-fashioned skeleton key.



I'd yank at the huge, imposing door, and scream for my mother to open the door, because Daddy had to see me wave good-bye to him from the front door, as well. He must have been made aware of the herculean effort on my part to wave good-bye to him from both doors, because even though we lived on the corner of a road and an alley, and all he had to do was just drive a few hundred feet to turn left onto Main Street, I always seemed to beat him to door. I figured the faster I'd wave my hand, the more my Dad would know I loved him; sometimes I waved my hand so fast and hard, I was sure it was going to fly off!



It was the same thing with apples. My father would not be allowed to eat a single apple until I had taken it, breathed on it, and shined up that apple so bright that you honestly could see your face looking back at it. The shinier that apple, the more my daddy would know that I loved him. I seriously thought that if anyone in this world needed to know that someone loved him unconditionally, then, I was going to show that I loved him unconditionally, forever and ever.



There was always a vulnerability and sadness to my father. You see, I don't think he was ever truly accepted as a younger man. He happened to live in a small town, one of the sons of the town -- for lack of better word -- tramp. My paternal grandmother could put the lady at the well to shame in her actions towards the opposite sex. In a small town, people don't always look at a person for themselves; they judge you for your father and mother, your grandparents, etc. That does something to a person. He did not trust women, and refused to allow my mother to work outside of the home. It didn't stop him from having a roaming eye of his own; and even though my father didn't lose his temper that much, when he did, it was more than terrifying. I remember hiding behind the couch on more than one occasion. But again, I knew he was dealing with demons of his own that raged inside of him.



On the positive, my Dad taught me how to have fun. He was the one who would get out in the yard and play football with us -- or he'd make up his own games for us to play. He created stilts for each of us children -- the higher he'd get them, the better we'd like it. He was the king of snow fort making. I loved being on his team whenever we'd play anything. He looked just like -- and was as strong as -- Superman, to me. He'd go to the grocery store and "accidentally" lose the list. We'd beg Dad for Fudgcicles, and he'd buy a huge box of them. Then he'd pronounce, "Well, you know what we need to go along with Fudgcicles, don't you? Potato chips!" That would start a chain reaction of what all we "needed" to round out Dad's list of groceries. We'd arrive back home, junk food galore filling up the bags; poor Mom would get red in the face and yell, "Didn't you get ANYTHING of SUBSTANCE?!"



There are a few things Dad wouldn't do: he wouldn't got to church with us unless it was a super-special occasion, he didn't read the Bible with us, and he didn't pray. He also never said that he loved us until I was 16 years old; funny, that didn't matter as much to me, because I just KNEW that my Daddy loved me. I did ache to hear the Bible being read by our parents, and I longed to pray with my Dad. My mom prayed with us when there was big trouble afoot, but to pray just to speak with God was not something we did.



Today changed all of that. Today while my dad was in a hospital bed, I asked to pray with him. He did not want to, and hemmed and hawed about it. He's a private man, deep down, and becomes shy at the strangest moments. I guess it's like how I was a disc jockey and singer, yet still become very embarrassed if attention is drawn to me at a restaurant (i.e. birthdays are never happy for me when those people in the restaurant come up to me and sing those silly songs).

At any rate, I felt a need to pray with him before, but he gently rebuffed me. Last night, I felt strongly that I needed to pray with my father. I could feel his fear -- an emotion I never associated with my father -- when I prayed for him in the comfort of my home. Yes, I found out, he has been very anxious lately. So, today when I asked him, he stated that he couldn't pray out loud because he was very exhausted from his rehab session.

"That's okay, Poppa (ever since I've watched "Fiddler on the Roof" I've called my father "Poppa" quite often, as as I cannot sit through a showing of that movie without thinking of my aged father when I see the loving, bearded, handsome, hard-working, long-suffering Tevya). At this moment, I'm stronger. And like the geese, I'm going to call out and ask God to help until you're strong enough, okay?"

He acquiesced. I prayed and asked God to hold my father in the night. I asked my heavenly Father to remind my earthly father that He hasn't given us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, love, and a sound mind, and that we do not need to be anxious for anything. I asked for God to give my dad a peace that surpasses all understanding that will guard his heart and mind. And I thanked my heavenly Daddy for giving me the desire of my heart to pray with my Dad. Dad was choked up by the time we said, "Amen." I was teary-eyed, as well. I know that he knows I love him beyond measure. And no matter what tomorrow may bring, I will hold in my heart forever the wonderful memory that my Dad prayed with me today.

What's that noise?

If you read my blog or if you know me personally, then you know my father has been facing big health struggles. He has been touch and go on many occasion. Well, after the latest bout of trouble, where he was encountering bowel obstruction issues, I went to my friends -- and again -- asked for prayer. The past several months seem to be me squawking for prayer. At least, that's what it seemed like to me, when I allowed myself to hear that little voice in my head that said, "Do you know what your friends do every time you ask for prayer for the latest thing going on in your life? They inwardly GROAN; that's what they do. Give it a break, already, you needy thing!"

Well, instead of recognizing it for what it is, I apologized to everyone for asking for prayer yet AGAIN. I truly felt badly about it. I really thought I was bothering people. Then, another friend asked for prayer for HER father, and I got on it right away. I find that when someone asks me to pray, I consider it an honor to be able to intercede before our heavenly Father. That still didn't convince me that I wasn't a bother to someone else, though.

Today is when it hit me. You see, I love geese. I'm fascinated with their migratory patterns, the way they communicate with each other, their formation as they fly. And there they were flying over head -- a massive amount of geese. Let's say I heard them before I saw them. Boy, are they loud! But boy, do they know how to communicate! While flying in their patterns, they are always communicating. They are constantly watching out for the weaker geese. They fly in the pattern they do so that the strongest are flying at the front, breaking the force of the wind for their comrades. The weakest and the oldest fly in the rear, where the wind resistance is least. As the geese in the front get tired, they communicate their needs and switch off with other geese who are more rested up. It is completely fascinating, and God spoke to me in the midst of remembering the geese.

In our journey through life, we cannot forsake the assembly of other believers. We need each other; we are not islands unto ourselves. God created us for relationship -- with Him and with others. The way that the enemy works on us is to isolate us, make us feel we are alone. We are NOT alone, especially if we make our requests known. We NEED to communicate our wants and desires through prayer, and we NEED to ask others to pray as well.

In my spiritual life, there are times when I have been extremely strong. I have witnessed and been part of awesome healings, deliverances and the like. But recently, I've become an injured goose. I need to rest back and let others lead and do some of the heavy spiritual work. There are times I'm strong enough to go back into the fray and lead. There's so much we can learn from the geese.

Christians need to be more like geese. Instead of smiling that fake plastered smile when someone in the faith asks how you are and saying, "I'm blessed beyond stressed" (which is a LIE), let your requests be known. Now, I'm not saying to be like Eeyore; what I'm saying is, we NEED to lift each other up. If you're down this morning, CALL SOMEONE in the faith that you know and ask them to pray for you. It's our jobs as Christians to suffer with our brothers and sisters when they're suffering, and to rejoice with them when they rejoice.

Besides, the prayers of the saints -- all of our prayers -- become sweet-smelling incense in heaven. I know -- I read Revelation recently to the children out of their children's Bible. We need to stop looking at prayer as a chore and look at it as beautiful perfume in the nostrils of our God and Savior. And it makes us a little more loving and caring of our brothers and sisters in the Lord -- and could possibly be the thing that turns the heart of our unbelieving friends, relatives and enemies towards the loving embrace of Jesus.

What's that noise? Just the sweet sound of prayer, that's all. May we lean upon You, today and every day, every hour, my Lord.